For Salt It’s Easy



For Salt It’s Easy


 Translated by Agnes Marton


Are we there yet, mister, at your flat?

The night is broken, I’m freezing,

I can hardly walk.


We should numb our senses,

but how?

This pain should be out.

What if this world were to cut, in me, a leak

and pull everything through?

What if the body were to be emptied,

turned inside out?

The soul might climb out.



Sometimes I’m standing at the station,

watching the smiling women,

how they laugh, walk, talk,

wearing pretty clothes,

then it comes to my mind:

one day they might be lined up,


who knows what would happen to them

before their execution.

Sometimes I see

crushed bodies everywhere

and I’m searching where

the calm will crack,

where death will step

between the days

and get stuck.

Because something washes,

slashes and splashes us,

like the sea,

and we have to stand empty-handed,

get used to the bangs.


The sea, mister, the sea

bites off our bodies

bit by bit.

All we have to do is

let our legs and arms swing

in the water

and the salt will burn

whatever it needs.

For salt it’s easy.

It whitewashes the body

grabbed out of the water,

takes the sun’s shine

and crackles.


This is how I soaked

my father in the sea,

but no matter how long,

he wouldn’t shrink,

his shadow wouldn’t fade.

He was just standing

in the water, straight up,

waiting for me to look into his eyes

and admit he was dead.


He was waiting for me

to find his eyes

and unhitch him

at long last.

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